


Like Father Like Son

by HeavyShoegaze



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon and Dany repopulate the North, Post-Canon, Where Jon slowly becomes Ned, because Rhaegar may have been Jon's father, but he wasn't Jon's daddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 22:30:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14342322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeavyShoegaze/pseuds/HeavyShoegaze
Summary: Almost twenty years after the Great War against the Others, King Jon Stark has rebuilt Winterfell and started a family of his own. Now, he's the honorable, lordly father, teaching his children about the honor, bravery, and traditions of the Starks.Somewhere, Ned Stark smiles proudly at his son.





	Like Father Like Son

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by this drawing - https://walek05.deviantart.com/art/Jon-Snow-Azor-Ahai-611471562
> 
> Basically, this is Jon reliving the first Winterfell scene in the show and the first two chapters of A Game of Thrones but in his father's role.

**Robb**

 

Robb Stark looked down the shaft of his arrow at the target, a round cross section of a tree that had been painted with red and blue rings and tied to a bale of hay twenty paces down. He tried to stand straight and pull the bowstring all the way back to his ear, just like his oldest brother, Cregan, instructed, but he didn’t have the strength. Robb felt his arm shake as he released the arrow, the force of the bow snapping back throwing his aim high and wide. The arrow sailed past the target and out of view, followed by a distressed squawk and an outraged _‘My chicken!’_.

Robb’s cheeks burned as snickers echoed across the yard. His father’s wards - Torrhen Snow, Little Sam and Little Jon Tarly, and Osric Bolton - laughed louder than everyone else. Torrhen, a lean, dark boy of nineteen with a rat’s nest of brown hair and quiet brown eyes, doubled over with laughter with Little Sam by his side, dropping the arrows they were carrying. Osric, tall and pale and fond of twirling his knife in his hands, laughed so hard he dropped his blade, swearing loudly as he nearly cut his finger off. Little Jon, who was helping Grenn, the master-at-arms, clean the armory, snorted loudly, trying to hide his laughter.

It was a lovely summer day in Winterfell. The rains had abated the day before, and the sun shone brightly over the castle with not a cloud in the sky. On days like this, Robb would be out with his brothers and sisters, shouting and playing and generally causing mischief. However, now, he just wished that the rains would come back and force everyone back inside, for the lovely weather just encouraged everyone to take their activities outside. Robb’s oldest brothers, Cregan Stark and Willem Snow, sparred in the courtyard as always. They were covered in sweat and had thrown their doublets to the ground, ignoring Grenn’s orders to ‘put on some padding before banging on each other with tourney swords’. Robb guessed that this was more for the benefit of the girls watching than anything else. They’d taken a break from fighting to watch Robb’s pitiful attempts at archery, trying and failing to hide their snickers. The twelve-year-old twins, Lyanna and Rhaella, sat to the side, chatting eagerly. Lyanna sat on their mother’s white mare like she always did, with a crooked grin and loud laughter. Rhaella sat a bit more demurely behind a canvas. She was painting a portrait of Ghost, Robb’s father’s great white direwolf. Ghost was lazing on the ground, his head resting on his paws as Rhaella tried in vain to pose him. Ghost’s blood red eyes were trained on Robb, looking completely unimpressed with his failure. Rhaella covered her soft giggles with a delicate hand, her violet eyes dancing with mirth. Eddard, Robb’s elder by two years, sat in the shade with his nose buried in a book, hiding his laughter behind the pages. Steffon, Cassana, and Visenya, their cousins, were present as well. Steffon, tall and broad and covered in soot from his father’s forge, stood next to Cregan, whispering something into his ear. Visenya had a bow in hand, putting arrow after arrow into her own target, smirking at Robb’s anguished look after each shot. Cassana sat next to Ned engrossed in a book of her own. Robb didn’t think she’d notice if one of the dragons landed in the courtyard and burned Winterfell to the ground.

“I remember you lot when you were Robb’s age,” an authoritative voice echoed from the above. Robb looked up too see his lord father standing on the balcony overlooking the yard. Almost immediately, the laughter completely died out. Robb’s father looked at Cregan with just the hint of a wry smile. “I remember a little Cregan shooting so wide he hit one of the giants. Which one was it, Grenn? Wun-Wun?”

“I believe it was Yag-Gor, the Bone Crusher, Your Grace,” Grenn laughed. Robb had to struggle to suppress a laugh. Yag was actually very kind when you got to know him, but he had earned the name ‘Bone-Crusher’ after the battle to retake Winterfell, where he crushed a man to death in his right hand. Robb pitied the fool who dared put an arrow in any giant, but poking Yag-Gor the Bone Crusher was especially stupid.

“Right,” Robb’s father chuckled. “Poor Cregan shot the Bone Crusher in the backside. I still remember Yag’s angry roar when I had to pull the arrow out.” There were quiet snickers in the yard, and Cregan burned red in embarrassment. “I found Cregan hiding in a tree in the Godswood, convinced that Yag was going to eat him. Don’t worry Robb,” he said, turning to Robb, “that wasn’t the worst shot I’ve ever seen. Give it another try.” Robb grinned and notched another arrow as Willem and Cregan walked over to help.

“Bend your knees, Robb,” Cregan advised kindly. “Take deep breaths and keep your arm steady.”

“You can do it,” Willem whispered as Robb trained the bow on the target. “Father’s watching.”

Robb took a deep breath and released the arrow. Everyone was silent as it flew through the air, landing with a _thunk_ on the target. It didn’t hit the center, instead lodging itself on the outermost ring. Robb didn’t care, though. He’d never even hit the target before, and he whooped loudly and embarrassingly. Cheers echoed across the yard, bringing a pleased flush to Robb’s cheeks. Cregan grinned approvingly and Willem ruffled his hair affectionately. Robb was more pleased than he should have been at Visenya’s pout at the lack of attention on her. She was about to say something, but the words died in her throat when Willem gave her a teasing wink. Visenya turned back to her arrows, hiding the uncharacteristic blush on her cheeks.

Robb looked up to where his father was standing, hoping to see another of his father’s soft smiles. His lord father stood with one arm wrapped around his mother. They had been talking to his Aunt Arya, Maester Sam, Edd - the captain of the guards, and Satin - the steward of Winterfell. Robb’s third oldest brother, Harlan, sat on the balcony with an apple in his hand, snorting at something their mother said. When no one was looking, he threw the core at Steffon. Steffon’s head whipped around, eyes searching for the source of the missile, but Harlan had turned to speak with Aunt Arya, who played along with the joke. Fooled, Steffon grumbled and wiped the flecks of apple from his messy hair. Robb grinned as his mother, who wasn’t fooled, swatted his head, trying to look like she disapproved of his mischief. She leaned slightly into her husband’s embrace, her silver hair bright against his dark tunic and her violet eyes trained on all her children in the yard. Her crown, jade, ivory, and onyx carved into the shape of a three-headed dragon. There was just the hint of the gold dragons of Dark Sister’s hilt at her hip. She had a bright laugh and clapped enthusiastically, making Robb heart soar. Robb’s father was always more subdued and stoic, but his lips quirked upwards and his dark grey eyes were soft and welcoming. He gave Robb a nod of encouragement before his attention was drawn behind him.

Robb took another shot. This time, the arrow went one ring closer to the center – an even better shot. Osric and Torrhen let out whoops and cheers and Harlan whistled loudly. When Robb looked up, he saw his father looking stoic and cold, more like the Winter King he was and less like a warm, loving father Robb knew. Ghost abruptly stood up, standing taller than any horse and nearly making Lyanna’s mare rear up in fright. The direwolf ignored the looks and nervous whinnies of Pyp’s horses and padded up the stairs, as if sensing Robb’s father’s determination. Overhead, Robb heard the shrieks of the dragons, who flew overhead and cast the entire castle in shadows. The entire yard went silent again as everyone looked up at the three wraiths circling overhead. Torrhen, who would never shut up under any circumstances, paled. Even he was terrified of them. Typically, the three dragons stayed in the Wolfswood. Only Robb’s parents were allowed near them. Robb didn’t understand the link his parents had with the dragons and with Ghost, but he knew they could summon them in an instant. There were hushed whispers as everyone took in their lord’s hard look and the dragons’ behavior. They only flew over Winterfell for one reason: an execution.

“Grenn, Pyp, settle the horses,” Robb’s father said, his voice cold and harsh like the Lands of Always Winter. “Meet me at the North Gate. Bring the boys. Eddard too.” The boys, Robb thought. That’s what everyone called Cregan, Willem, Harlan, Torrhen, Steffon, Sam, Osric, and Jon. The seven of them were collectively known as ‘The Boys’ and caused mischief and trouble wherever they went. Ned was too good-natured to take part, preferring to spend his time reading with Maester Sam and Cassana. Lyanna usually went too, but she was being punished for riding at night without permission, and she wasn’t allowed to leave Winterfell for another moon’s turn. “Oh, and bring Robb too,” he added. Robb’s mother frowned.

“I wish you didn’t have to take him,” she said sadly. “He’s only seven.” The stone façade cracked slightly, and Robb’s father looked at him with an unreadable look in his eyes before shaking his head.

“You know as well as I do that no one stays a child forever, Daenerys,” he said softly, hugging her close. “Winter is coming, after all.” He turned back to Grenn, who nodded in assent.

“Aye, King Jon,” Grenn said. “I’ll bring the lads and meet you at the North Gate.”

 

 

Robb sat on his pony, trying to look as serious as his brothers and their friends as they rode to a clearing of the Wolfswood North of Winterfell. According to Cregan, this place was where the Starks performed the King’s Justice since the first days of Winterfell. Cregan and Willem rode at the front, next to their father. Harlan and Steffon rode behind them. They chatting amicably, no doubt plotting some prank or manner of mischief. Edd, Grenn, and Ser Gendry, the master smith and one of their guards, followed closely, Edd watching Harlan and Steffon closely. Ser Gendry Baratheon was their uncle, married to their Aunt Arya and the father of Steffon, Cassana, and Visenya. He was tall and broad, taking after the Baratheons of the Stormlands, and carried a Warhammer over his shoulder and a helmet shaped like a bull’s head tucked under his arm. Like all Baratheons, he had stormy blue eyes and coal black hair that he wore in a messy fringe that covered his eyes. All of his children took after him in looks. Aunt Arya sat on her horse next to her direwolf, Nymeria, holding the reins of her horse tightly. She had her sword, Needle, at her hip and would reach for its pommel every so often. There was something unnerving her, and Nymeria could sense that. The direwolf seemed tense, poised to attack at any second. Five of the guards were Giants from the Lonely Hills, where Robb’s father had given their people lands to settle before the Great War under the care of Wun-Dun-Wun-Gar-Wun, the Lord of the Giants. The Giants were more than twice as tall as a man. They rode huge mammoths, that dwarfed everyone save the dragons, and carried huge clubs and greatswords whose blades alone were taller than even Cregan. Robb only knew Yag-Gor the Bone Crusher, who rode in front of the other Giants. Robb recognized him by his iron helmet shaped like a mammoth’s skull, complete with pointed tusks, and the giant stone hammer on his shoulder. Maester Sam said the giants, like all the Free Folk, made peace with Robb’s father and fought alongside him against the Others and the Night’s King. They were certainly intimidating, and Robb always gave them a wide berth.

Robb rode with Ned and Little Jon behind Little Sam, Torrhen and Osric, trying to keep up. All of them were quiet, and Robb was struck by how ‘the boys’ were lost for words. Ned reached over and put a comforting hand on Robb’s shoulder, squeezing it tightly. Behind them, the guards escorted the prisoners, three ratty looking men looking bruised and bloody. Robb had never been to an execution, but he could tell that this was different. Usually, the boys would leave for an execution with their usual smiles and laughter. Their silence, Robb guessed, meant that whatever these three men had done, it was particularly heinous.

The party halted at the clearing, an acre of grassland surrounded by hills and the dense trees of the Wolfswood. There was an iron oak stump in the center, where Robb guessed the heads rolled. This time, a gallows had been erected, with three stools and nooses. Robb shivered, knowing what this would entail. So busy taking everything in, Robb didn’t notice they had stopped and rode forward, bumping his pony into Osric’s mare’s left flank. Osric turned and Robb expected some sort of teasing. Instead, Osric just gave him a sad look and put an arm around his shoulders, kissing him softly on the top of the head. Robb looked at Torrhen, who was glaring darkly at the prisoners. He shook his head slightly and gestured for Robb and Ned to come to the front.

There was a brief pause in the atmosphere as the prisoners were brought forwards. Robb took the opportunity to look at everyone in the party. Cregan and Willem, his father’s eldest sons, stood at the front by his father. Cregan Stark was taller, darker, and heavily built, looking like a true lord in his armor, fur cloak, and leathers. He had long, straight, dark-brown hair that he tied back like father and steely grey eyes that were cold and hard. The older lords of the North swore that he was the spitting image of Brandon Stark, Robb’s father’s uncle. Robb only knew Brandon Stark from his statue in Winterfell’s crypts, and the statue looked too cold and lifeless. Nevertheless, Robb could see the resemblance. Cregan gripped Ice, the ancestral greatsword of House Stark, in his hands. Willem Snow was almost his exact opposite, lean and fair with piercing blue eyes. Pyp, the master of horse, had remarked that save for his coloring, he looked exactly like King Jon when he was younger. Since then, he wore his honey-blond curls loose and free. Robb noticed he took exceptionally good care of his hair, a trait he’d inherited from their father, not that King Jon would ever admit it. Robb’s mother always joked that her husband never loved a woman like he loved his hair. Where Cregan had stubble around his cheeks, jaw, and lips, Willem was always clean shaven. Willem’s mother had been a wildling princess named Val who died fighting the Others, and from the way Robb’s mother looked at Willem, she’d been very close to both Robb’s mother and father. Willem also wore steel armor, but his cloak was a white one, made from the skin of a Snow Bear and clasped with a weirwood face. It had belonged to Val, Willem had said, and he treasured it dearly. Torrhen, the son of Mance Rayder, the former King Beyond the Wall, was his cousin, as their mothers were sisters.

Harlan and Steffon were still talking when they stopped and dismounted. Steffon had green armor with a prancing black stag and Harlan wore ornate black armor with the red three-headed-dragon of the Targaryens emblazoned all over and a flowing red cape. Steffon’s helmet was green with long golden antlers and Harlan’s was black with three red dragons crawling on top, wings spread and maws snarling. Steffon wore his, but Harlan had his tucked in the crook of his arm, letting his long, pretty silver hair flow freely. There was an elaborately decorated black longsword at Harlan’s hip and Steffon had the Warhammer he’d made with his father on his shoulder. Everyone said they looked like Rhaegar Targaryen and Robert Baratheon, who’d fought to the death at the Trident long ago, before either of Robb’s parents had been born. Cregan and Willem said they looked like prancing Southrons, but Robb thought Harlan and Steffon looked like true knights – mostly because they _were_ knights. They’d been squired in the South – Harlan with Ser Loras Tyrell of the Kingsguard and Steffon with Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne of Tarth. They’d been knighted at a tourney in King’s Landing celebrating the Crown Princess Rhaenyra’s name-day. Steffon had won the melee and Harlan the joust. They’d returned a fortnight ago, cocky and self-assured as only sixteen-year-olds can be. Harlan could back it up, though. He was one of the best swordsmen Robb had ever seen, better than Cregan and even Aunt Arya. He even fought their father to a draw, a duel everyone in Winterfell had come out to see. Robb had expected Steffon and Harlan to laugh and jape on the way to the clearing, but they just whispered quietly and seriously, as if expecting an attack.

Robb stood next to Ned and Osric. Where Cregan took after the Starks and Willem took after Val, Harlan and Ned had their mother’s Targaryen looks. Ned had short ashen hair and quiet violet eyes. Everyone said that he took after his namesake, the Quiet Wolf, in demeanor if not in looks. He was solemn and bookish, but kindhearted. No one had a cross word to say about Eddard Stark. Rhaella was the spitting image of her mother, and Lyanna looked like Aunt Arya but taller. Osric had the Bolton looks, a fact he had always resented. He was pale as moonlight and lithe, with long dark hair and pale blue eyes. He wore the flayed man of House Bolton on the clasp of his furs. Behind them, Little Sam and Little Jon Tarly, neither of them actually very little, sat on their horses talking quietly with Torrhen.

Robb was the odd one in the family. He had reddish brown hair and blue eyes, taking after his great-great-great grandmother, Arya Flint of the Mountain Clans. Robb always felt like the Gods had played a jape on him by denying him the appearance of the Dragonlords or the old Kings in the North. When he’d asked if he was even a Stark at all, his father took him to the crypts below Winterfell, where their ancestors lay. He took Robb to the grave of his namesake, King Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. It was a great comfort, knowing he resembled a noble king.

As the men were led to the gallows, King Jon dismounted and walked forwards, Ghost at his side and Cregan following. The guards dismounted too, the Giants holding their weapons at the ready. Following their lead, everyone got off their horses. There were loud thumps where the Giants dismounted from their mammoth mounts. Ned offered to help Robb, but he shook his head and got off of his pony with ease. Around him, everyone had a hand on their weapons. Robb thought all this security was a bit much, given the pitiable condition of the three prisoners. Nevertheless, the men were forced onto the stools and the nooses were placed around their necks while everyone glared angrily.

As King Jon approached the gallows, there was a series of loud shrieks and giant twisting shadows rippling across the grass. With a thump, the dragons landed on the hills around the gallows, looking at King Jon. They were absolutely gigantic creatures, their heads the size of carriages and their wings capable of blocking out the sun. They snarled and hissed, showing off their giant, razor sharp teeth. A single one could grab a mammoth in its jaws and fling it halfway to King’s Landing. Just one of them was a terrifying sight. Three were the stuff of nightmares, surrounding the entire clearing. Even standing at the very edge, their heads could reach the gallows in the center.

Viserion, white and gold, was the quietest, almost as quiet as Ghost. He landed first, touching the ground softly and settling almost immediately. He was the most observant, and he craned his long neck to stare at each prisoner with his eyes of molten gold. Robb could feel everyone hesitate as the dragon looked at them. Even Aunt Arya, who wasn’t afraid of anything, was apprehensive in the face of literal dragons. Viserion was the most obedient and quickest to settle, and he relaxed fairly quickly. He was followed by Rhaegal, the emerald green dragon. Where Viserion was quiet and relaxed, Rhaegal was energetic and playful, landing lightly before hopping around. He was bursting with energy, as if he’d explode into flames unless he kept moving. He was the loudest, screeching and hissing before King Jon put a calming hand on his nose. According to his mother, Rhaegal was the most child-like; he loved attention and would do almost anything to get his mother or father to pet him. Rhaegal moved to the side, giving some space between himself and Viserion for the third dragon, Drogon. Rhaegal was incidentally terrifying: he scared people because of his eagerness and his friendliness was often mistaken for aggression, but he was generally friendly and harmless. Drogon, though, was deadly serious. Maester Sam said he was Balerion the Black Dread reborn, and without either of Robb’s parents to rein him in, he could be territorial and aggressive. The largest and meanest, Drogon was protective and lashed out at everyone he deemed a threat to his family. Robb’s mother said that she only married his father after he won Drogon’s approval. When Drogon landed between Viserion and Rhaegal, the ground shook. Where Viserion was quiet and Rhaegal chirped eagerly, Drogon roared at the prisoners. He quieted after a look from King Jon, but he still leered and glared, letting everyone know that he’d burn them alive with hot, black dragonfire at the first indication from King Jon. The prisoners shivered with fear, eyes desperately darting between the dragons and King Jon.

Then, there was Robb’s father. King Jon Stark. Flanked by his direwolf, his eldest son, and three giant dragons, he stood strong and cold and imposing. He walked to the front of the platform where the condemned men stood, one hand on the wolf’s head pommel of Longclaw, his magic Valyrian sword. He stood in front of the prisoners next to the rope that, when cut, would pull the stools from under the men. Even Cregan, who was taller and broader than his father, seemed smaller just by the presence King Jon exuded. He had a neatly cropped beard flecked with grey and long dark curls tied in a bun behind his head. There were a few light scars on his face, pale white lines against his skin. His dark grey eyes were hard and cold as he looked at the prisoners. The Winter Crown of hammered bronze and white weirwood on his head looked cold as stone. Robb now understood why people called his father the ‘King of Winter’. He peeled off his gloves and gave them to Cregan, who handed him Ice. King Jon gripped the hilt tightly and pulled it free from its sheath, exposing its dark blade of Valyrian Steel, the same metal as Longclaw or his wife’s sword, Dark Sister. Ice was as long as King Jon was tall, and its blade wider than Robb’s hand. King Jon rested the sword on its point, gripping the hilt with both hands.

“You stand accused of treason for your part in the murder of Robb Stark, the King in the North. If you have any last words,” he said calmly, “now would be the time.” One of the men made to speak, but then he looked at Drogon and shut up. All of them looked too frightened to speak. Finally, one had the courage to open his mouth.

“Fuck the Starks,” he sneered, spitting on the ground. King Jon didn’t even flinch but Drogon roared loudly at the prisoner. Robb could see the glow of fire deep in Drogon’s throat. King Jon gave the black dragon another stern look, and he backed off, snarling and hissing in fury.

“In the sight of Gods and Men, I, Jon of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North, sentence you to die.” As he raised Ice over his head, Willem bent over to whisper to Robb.

“Keep your pony calm and don’t look away.” Robb held the reins tightly, eyes trained on his father.

King Jon brought Ice down on a taut rope tied in front of him. When the rope was cut, the weights on the pulleys atop the gallows fell, and the stools were pulled from underneath the prisoners. Robb continued to look as the men hanged. He flinched at the sounds of their necks cracking and they choked. After they died, Drogon roared loudly, as if to call out to all of Westeros _‘Behold the vengeance of the Starks!’_ As the prisoners were cut down, King Jon sheathed Ice, handed it back to Cregan, put his gloves back on, and walked back to his horse, speaking quietly to Cregan and Grenn. Behind Robb, Aunt Arya sniffed and turned her horse around. Robb was still frozen, looking at the gallows, and he didn’t notice that the party had turned back until his father rode up next to him.

“Are you alright, Robb?” he asked kindly. Robb was vaguely aware he nodded his head. His father seemed unconvinced. “Come with me to the Godswood?” He asked. Robb wasn’t sure if he wanted to do anything other than curl in his bed, but he nodded again. It wasn’t in his place to deny his father.

“Race you, back to the gate, Baratheon?” Harlan asked Steffon.

“Done,” the boy said, bolting before Harlan could ready his horse. Cregan muttered something about showing respect but Willem, never one to turn down a challenge, made to give chase. Cregan looked at King Jon questioningly. King Jon just chuckled and took Ice from his son.

“Go on,” he said with a small smile, looking more like the kind father Robb knew. “It’ll do your brother good to lose once in a while.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to wait some more for that particular remedy, father,” Willem quipped over his shoulder. King Jon gave him an unamused look, but Willem just laughed and kicked his horse into a sprint. Cregan swore and bolted after him. The two raced around the party and weaved through the mammoths before disappearing down the trail into the woods, followed by Osric and Torrhen. The Tarly boys decided against it, though, and King Jon smiled approvingly at their respectful behavior. Overhead, the dragons screeched and roared as they flew back to Robb’s mother. Everyone seemed just a little less nervous to see them leave. Robb, still shaken, leaned into his father’s hand on his shoulder as they rode back to Winterfell.

 

 

Robb and his father split off from the party at the gate and walked into the Godswood after handing their horses to Pyp. Robb was feeling slightly less queasy, but he couldn’t get the memory of the lifeless corpses from his mind. King Jon had Ice under his arm and guided Robb to the Weirwood tree in front of the pond. Besides them, Ghost stalked soundlessly. Robb found some comfort in his father’s hand on his shoulder and the way Ghost’s thick white fur felt through his fingers. King Jon sat at the base of the weirwood tree under the weeping face and gestured for Robb to sit next to him.

“Normally I come here to clean Ice, but there’s nothing to clean from the blade after a hanging,” his father remarked casually as he unsheathed the blade and laid it across his lap. He was careful to point the blade away from Robb. “Even still, a man is always well advised to keep his blade polished and oiled at all times. Remember that when you’re old enough to carry steel yourself. Would you hand me the rag and oil, please?” he asked, pointing to the can of oil and washcloth in Robb’s hands. Robb dipped the cloth in oil and handed it over wordlessly, taking care not to get oil on his father’s gloves. “You did well,” he said kindly, seeing that the deaths still weighed on Robb’s mind. “You were very brave.”

“I don’t feel brave,” Robb protested. “I feel sick.”

“The first time I saw an execution, I threw up on the spot. It was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life,” his father laughed. Robb frowned, trying to imagine his strong, dignified father so scared he emptied his stomach.

“But I was scared,” Robb said. “I wasn’t brave. I wanted to look away.”

“Aye, you wanted to, but you didn’t. That’s what matters.” Robb looked at his father questioningly. “Lord Eddard Stark, my uncle, used to say that a man can only be brave when he’s afraid. Do you know why?” Robb thought hard about this. _A man can only be brave when he’s afraid?_ How did that make sense?

“Because he’s facing his fears?” His father grinned, taking a break from polishing Ice to wrap an arm around Robb’s shoulders and hug him close.

“Exactly! You were brave today because you wanted to look away but didn’t. You faced your fears and looked at death, as terrible as it was.”

“It was terrible,” Robb admitted, putting his unease into words.

“Aye, it was,” his father agreed. Robb looked up, stunned. He’d assumed that his father was unaffected by the hangings, but when he met his father’s eyes, he saw a sadness and weight in them, one he’d never seen before. “Why do you think I come here?” He asked, his lips twitching into a slight smile.

“I’m not sure,” he said. The Godswood was dark and foreboding, with shadows covering most of the three acres. The face on the weirwood tree always gave him nightmares, especially when the red sap would come through the eyes, looking like the tree was crying blood. The entire place was unsettling.

“My uncle sat here after executions. As did his father before him and his father before him. I come here to find peace after taking a man’s life and to ask the Old Gods for guidance and forgiveness,” his father said, bringing Robb’s head close. Robb looked up and saw his father’s crown. It was a beaten bronze circlet with prongs shaped like longswords pointing straight upwards and a wolf’s head in front. There were runes of the first men all around the base. The ornamentation was made of weirwood, taken from branches of the heart tree. The crown was grey and white save for the wolf’s eyes, which were blood red. It was a crown fit for a King of Winter.

“What did those men do?” Robb asked, remembering the solemnity with which the party moved to the Wolfswood. Robb remembered Aunt Arya’s barely contained tears and Osric’s forlorn glances vividly.

“Those men were sworn to your namesake, Robb Stark,” his father replied. “Tell me what you know about him.”

“Robb Stark was the eldest son of Lord Eddard Stark. That’s who Ned is named after, right?”

“Good,” his father said approvingly. “Continue.”

“His mother was Lady Catelyn Tully. That’s who Auntie Sansa’s daughter Cat Arryn is named for. Robb Stark was the King in the North. They called him the Young Wolf and his direwolf was named Grey Wind. He was your best friend. That’s why you named me after him.”

“Very good,” his father said, a faraway look in his eyes. “What happened to him?”

“He was betrayed at the Twins by Roose Bolton and Walder Frey.”

“Aye,” his father said roughly. “Those three men were Roose Bolton’s men. They helped slaughter Robb and his soldiers after Walder Frey invited Robb into his house. It was the height of dishonor.”

“Is that why Aunt Arya was so upset?” Robb asked.

“Aye. Arya was at the Twins during the massacre. She barely escaped with her life. Her brother and mother died there.” Robb nodded in understanding.

“What about Os?” Robb asked hesitantly. Everyone knew that Osric Bolton was the son of Roose Bolton and Walda Frey, the families that killed King Robb Stark and his mother. As the future Lord of the Dreadfort and the last of the Boltons, Osric got more than his fair share of suspicious glares, especially from those who lost fathers and brothers in the Young Wolf’s war. “I don’t want to hate him,” Robb confided.

“Osric may have the surname ‘Bolton’, but he’s a Stark. I gave him his name and raised him as my own after taking Winterfell back from Roose Bolton and his son, Ramsey Snow. Osric is my son and your brother, just as Cregan, Willem, and Ned are. I see no reason to judge an innocent child for the crimes of his father or his half-brother. Especially since those crimes happened before he was born.” That’s good, Robb thought. Osric was always nice to him, even if he did like to twirl blades around and laugh at his poor archery.

“Good. I like Os,” Robb whispered.

“Do you understand why I did it? Why I executed those men?” his father asked softly, changing the subject.

“You said they were murderers,” Robb reminded him, confused by the question.

“Aye, I did. But what I mean is, do you understand why _I_ did it? Why did I have to come all the way out here? I could have fed those men to Ghost, or had the dragons burn them alive, or even just had my men kill them. The Gods know they were vile men and deserving of a painful death. Why did I do it myself?” he reiterated the question as he finished oiling Ice’s blade and slid the huge sword back into its sheath. Robb pondered the question. Anyone could cut a rope, right?

“I don’t know,” Robb answered truthfully. He half wished his father had someone else do it. He would have liked not to see the men hang himself.

“My uncle used to say that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. The only honorable way to take a man’s life is to look him in the eyes and hear his last words. If you cannot do that, then you have no right to kill him,” his father advised. “Our way is the old way. We are Starks of Winterfell, of the blood of the First Men. For as long as the Starks have governed the North, we have carried out the King’s Justice in this manner.”

“Is that why you use Ice?” Robb asked, the thought jumping in his mind. His father had Longclaw, after all. Longclaw, or Lightbringer, as it was known across the realm, was his father’s bastard sword. It was made of the same Valyrian Steel as Ice and his mother’s Dark Sister, but Longclaw burned with a glowing, unquenchable fire. It was the sword his father used to slay the Night’s King and end the Long Night. As impressive as Ice was, Robb thought Longclaw was better. Ice was purely ceremonial. Longclaw was made for battle.

“Exactly,” Robb’s father said, sporting a large smile at Robb’s perceptiveness. “I use Ice for the same reason I come to the Godswood afterwards. For the same reason why the direwolf graces my banners and the runes of the First Men grace my crown. It’s part of a tradition that goes back thousands of years. They remind me that I am a Stark, with all the traditions and duties that name entails. When I stand there, prepared to take a man’s life, I stand in the footsteps of my ancestors and swing their sword. Longclaw is _my_ sword. Ice belongs to House Stark. Do you understand the difference?”

“I think so,” Robb said. “You didn’t take their lives for yourself. You did it in the name of House Stark. You executed them that way because it was justice, not revenge.” Robb’s father gave him a wide, proud smile.

“When did you become so wise?” he asked in good humor, pulling Robb close. Robb smiled into his father’s chest, enjoying his father’s warm embrace. King Jon Stark had a larger than life reputation around the realm, both in the North and in the Southern Kingdom, which was ruled by his brother, Aegon the Sixth. Robb knew his father had many names: The King of Winter, the Hero of the Dawn, the White Wolf, the Prince who was Promised, Azor Ahai… Everyone in Westeros had a name for Robb’s father, but Robb felt none of them truly knew him. Robb knew he was the wisest, bravest, most honorable man who ever lived, but also that his father was warm and kind and loving to his children.

“The wisdom comes from his mother,” a voice interrupted them. Robb looked up and saw his mother walking towards them, with a soft smile on her lips. She was dressed in black, with the red dragons of the Targaryens on her furs and a black cloak lined with red. She had a golden hilted longsword on her hip, a gift from Robb’s father when they first met. Her long silver hair was tied in an elaborate braid. According to Rakharo, one of her bloodriders, Robb’s mother hadn’t cut her hair in over twenty years, adding dozens of braids each year after countless victories. She was flanked by four men: Rakharo, Jhogo, and Aggo, her bloodriders, and Grey Worm, the commander of the Unsullied. Next to her, a two year old baby boy – Robb’s younger brother Brandon – eagerly toddled forwards, violet eyes lighting up when he noticed his father. Robb’s father laughed as he picked up Bran and sat the boy on his lap. Bran giggled and reached for his father’s hair, pulling it free of the leather tie.

“As does Bran’s obsession with my hair,” he retorted, pretending to grumble as Bran put a lock of his father’s curly fair in his mouth. Robb’s mother laughed, a sound like tinkling bells.

“I just came to see how Robb handled the execution. I hope it wasn’t too scary,” she said, kissing the top of Robb’s head.

“Robb was very brave,” his father said with pride. “You would have been proud of him.”

“I’m always proud of Robb,” she replied.

“I thought the dragons were scary,” Robb admitted.

“Dragon!” Bran shouted, recognizing the word. Robb looked up as a large shadow moved across the Godswood. Overhead, Rhaegal swooped and spun lazily. Robb smiled. From afar, Rhaegal’s antics and exuberance were contagious. It was only when he came closer that he terrified everyone. Ghost, as if sensing that Bran was starting to prefer the dragons over him, padded over to lick at Bran’s face. Robb’s father chuckled and shook his head.

“I head Drogon was a bit unruly,” his mother said.

“Aye, he was. Not terribly so, just more on edge than I had expected. Viserion was well behaved as usual and Rhaegal was, well, _Rhaegal_.” They shared a laugh. “He really is an overgrown puppy,” his father said wistfully. “He reminds me of Grey Wind. Drogon, though,” he shook his head. “Drogon seemed troubled.”

“I can think of a few reasons for that,” his mother admitted, sitting down on Robb’s other side. “A letter came from King’s Landing.”

“What does Tyrion want?” King Jon asked softly. Letters from King’s Landing usually came from Lord Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the King to King Aegon. Tyrion Lannister was a good friend and helped keep the peace between the Northern and Southern Kingdoms. Robb’s father had a Hand of his own named Ser Davos Seaworth, but he was enjoying a well-deserved holiday in White Harbor with his wife and children.

“He informed us that the King has agreed to marry the Crown Princess to Harlan, and to remind us that Harlan would be the royal consort, not the regent,” she said, handing him a scroll.

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to dampen his ego,” he said, shaking his head.

“There’s nothing wrong with confidence,” his mother said. “He’s earned the right to be self-assured.”

“Maybe, but there’s a difference between the battlefield and the tourney grounds.” They shared a secret smile, and Robb guessed they were remembering fighting together during the Great War.

“I’ll talk to him, remind him of the value in humility,” his mother said.

“Good. I remember the way Joffrey Baratheon strutted around Winterfell as if everyone was beneath him. I won’t have any of our sons behaving like that.”

“Harlan is nothing like _Joffrey_ ,” his mother said, spitting the name with venom. Robb had only heard the name occasionally, but from the way his father and Aunt Arya spoke of him, this Joffrey character must have been a monster. Robb’s father saw his wife’s annoyed pout and laughed, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Believe me, I know. Harlan’s as far from Joffrey as you can get. Even still, Kings Landing is a dangerous place. I’d rather Harlan was less cocky before sending him South for good.” He looked down at the scroll in his hands. “Apparently, my dear brother wanted to suggest a dragon as a wedding gift.”

“I’m giving Harlan Dark Sister one day. You’d think that would be sufficient. I’ll ask Gendry to make him one, then,” Robb’s mother laughed. “Any other requests from His Grace?”

“Only that he hopes this marriage will lead to bringing the Riverlands, the North, and the Vale back under the Iron Throne one day,” he said with a grin. “Almost twenty years, and Aegon still hasn’t let it go.”

“You took two-thirds of his kingdom!” his mother said incredulously. She stood up and looked down at her seated husband. “ _I_ wouldn’t have let it go.”

“I did kneel to _you_ , my queen,” his father said, pulling her to him with a growl. She yelped as she fell on his lap. “I would bend the knee a thousand times to you, as would Sansa and Edmure. Not to a coward who hid while we risked our lives to save the realm Anyways, I like the terms of our compromise. I think I came out ahead.” He pressed his nose into the side of her neck. Robb’s mother laughed and swatted him away. The King gave her a wounded look, much like Ghost gave when someone refused to feed him scraps from their plate.

“None of that now, Jon Stark. I came to talk about Drogon. I know why he was so on edge.” At the King’s curious look, she continued. “I found a clutch of eggs in their nest.” Both Robb and King Jon gaped at the news. _More Dragons?_ Robb remembered how his father and his cousins all got direwolf pups as children. He looked at his father hopefully.

“No. I’m not letting my children play with dragons,” he said adamantly. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Eddard Stark let you all play with direwolves,” his mother said. “Ghost and Nymeria aren’t exactly harmless.” Ghost looked at her from behind Brandon, who was pulling his face.

“Drogon is big enough to swallow a carriage whole!” the King protested.

“They won’t be born that big. Drogon is more than twenty years old. Besides, I was Rhaella and Lyanna’s age when Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion were born, and nothing bad happened. Besides, Targaryens kept dragon eggs with their children since the days of Old Valyria,” the Queen retorted. Robb agreed, but kept his mouth closed. Brandon seemed too occupied with tormenting Ghost, who bore his attentions with commendable patience.

“Aye, that may have been tradition, but our children are Starks,” Father protested.

“What did your mother name you,” Mother asked impetuously, turning her nose up. To look him in the eyes. Robb’s mother was actually quite little, but she could make even the giants seem small when she was angry. Robb’s father reddened and averted his gaze, mumbling something darkly. “I didn’t catch that. Louder, please. What did Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark name their son?”

“Jon Targaryen,” he growled.

“And what is my name?” she continued.

“Which one? You have so many,” Father snarked. Mother gave him an evil eye, and Father sighed. “Fine, Daenerys Targaryen.”

“And the children of two Targaryens would be…”

“But…” Mother silenced Father with a peck on the lips, laughing as Robb wrinkled his nose.

“When you learned your parentage, I told you that you were a Targaryen and a Stark. A dragon and a wolf. Our children are no different. Winterfell will forever be the home of dragons and direwolves.”

“What would my ancestors say if they saw dragons flying over the keep?” Father lamented, with a small smile growing on his lips.

“Nothing, else I’ll teach them the meaning of the words _Fire and Blood_ ,” his mother countered, shaking her hips on her husband’s lap. Father groaned.

“Fine. We’ll see,” he said. “This is what I get for marrying a Targaryen,” he grumbled. The Queen laughed at the defeated look on his face.

“You seemed so happy to marry a Targaryen all those years ago. Perhaps you’ve changed your mind?”

“Never,” Father said, wrapping his arms around her. “I am yours and you’re mine.” He whispered something into her ear and she blushed furiously.

“Behave, Jon Stark! Anyways, there’s another kind of dragon coming to Winterfell soon,” she said cryptically. At her husband’s confused look, she put one of his hands on her stomach. “Missandei had her suspicions this morning so I talked to Sam while you were gone. He confirmed it.” Robb’s father’s eyes widened, and he pulled her close, kissing her soundly on the lips. Robb stuck out his tongue in disgust. Kissing was gross, right?

“I was thinking Alysanne for a girl and Jorah for a boy,” she said as they broke apart. Robb’s father just nodded dumbly. “This will be the eighth child I’ve given you, Jon. Don’t you dare take me for granted.”

“Never. You’re the best thing that happened to me,” he said, still looking at her stomach.

“Incidentally, there were nine dragon eggs in the clutch. Now, from what I remember of when you found the direwolves, that must mean that our children were meant to have them, right?” Robb’s father groaned again.

“Alright, alright. They may have the dragons. But they stay somewhere other than the castle when they grow too big. I will not have Winterfell burn to the ground because Lyanna neglects to teach her's anything other than _Dracarys_ ,” he said sternly.

“I know you’re still mad at her but give the child _some_ credit.”

“Arya let Nymeria run feral, abandoned her for years, then ran into her by chance one the way back to Winterfell. That wolf caused my uncle no end of grief. Now imagine that trouble but with a _dragon,”_ he said.

“Very well, but you _will not_ chain them in some pit like out ancestors did. _Zaldizes buzdari iksos daor,_ ” she said warningly. “You will build great towers to the West between Winterfell and the Sheepshead Hills for the dragons to call home. They will hunt by the sea and not harm anyone, and they will grow large and mighty and free.”

“As if I could deny you anything. I’ll speak with Wun-Wun about building such a structure,” his father said kindly.

“Good, now, if you are quite finished boring my son to tears with your talk of _honor_ and _vows_ , we are all quite hungry. If our king could grace us with his presence so we may begin eating, I would be most grateful,” his mother drawled, pulling herself away from his father’s arms and to her feet. She took Brandon’s hand and started walking back to the keep. Wordlessly, Jhogo, Rakharo, Aggo, and Grey Worm followed.

King Jon got to his feet, slung Ice over his shoulder, and strapped the giant sword to his back. He gestured to Robb, who just realized how hungry he was. The hour had grown late, and the Godswood was dark and shadowy. Normally, he’d be afraid, but standing next to his father, he felt like the bravest man in the world.

“I think it’s too dark to see,” his father whispered. “Do you know where we could get some light?” Robb’s eyes widened as he immediately looked at the whit wolf’s head pommel of Longclaw. His father grinned and drew Longclaw, letting the sword glow white-hot, too bright to look at directly. The Godswood lit up like daytime, and Robb knew there was nothing to fear in the dark. He’d long forgotten the cold dead eyes of the executed prisoners, thoughts occupied by little dragons and baby siblings and his father’s soft, proud smile.


End file.
